


The Winchesters and the Terrible No Good Very Bad Week

by agentslander



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentslander/pseuds/agentslander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The everyday mishaps of hunters or is it something more? Sam and Dean end up caught up in a series of misfortune over the course of a week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winchesters and the Terrible No Good Very Bad Week

Monday Afternoon  
3:08pm

The sunlight glistened off the black paint of the ‘67 Chevy Impala as coasted into the worn down shopping center, somewhere in Lincoln, Nebraska. It pulled into a spot in front of the only business still in operation on the lot.

The sign which read, Laundry Land, was newer than others in the area. A giant promo in the window boasted it to be the #1 Laundromat in Lincoln, as well as the biggest and the cleanest. Still, time cracked the plastic in the U and pigeons had taken up residence within the confines of the D’s. 

“What? I’m sorry,” Sam Winchester winced a bit when his eyes made contact with his brother. 

Dean put the car into park and slid out of the driver’s seat without a word. Sam followed suit and made no commotion about being left to tend to the boxes of laundry in the backseat by himself. He tossed one onto the hood of the Impala and with a glance, his eyes caught contact with those of Dean’s, again. The scowl, unmoving, said more words than needed to be spoken.

“What?” Sam asked again. Dean just shook his head in obvious restraint of what he wanted to say and lead the way into the laundromat. 

As soon as they walked through the doors, about half a dozen people casually turned to look at them. The condition of their laundry load registered with a few, who wore varied looks of disgust, surprise and perhaps even a bit of fear. 

“Transmission fluid,” Sam answered the unasked question to a woman who continued to stare. Whether it was believable… 

Like the clothes in the box, both brothers were covered head to toe in thick brownish red that had dried on the drive over in the summer heat. Dean’s head snapped over to Sam’s direction. His lips moved, but restraint won out again. He jerked his head in the direction of the machines and Sam did as he was told.

“Really? Transmission fluid?” Dean finally spoke as they began to load the clothes into the washing machine.

“I had to say something,” Sam defended, though his tone suggested he that knew he was already beat.

“No, what you could have done was not decapitate a Nachzehrer next to all our damn clothes!” Dean snapped.

“What would you have had me do then? It was then or never, Dean,” Sam snapped back, the fight back in him as he began to unbutton his shirt and undo his belt.

“I don’t know, Sam. Take it outside and put it out of it’s misery, Old Yeller style. Move a foot over and let housekeeping deal with it tomorrow. Use that noggin to do something other than gripe or go through books. Hunting 101. Be aware of your surroundings,” Dean barked back as he too began to strip off the bloodstained clothes.

The silence stretched as they waited for their clothes. Boxers, boots and socks were the only things keeping them from putting on a Full Monty show for the middle aged woman across from them, who kept glancing over with either concern or desire. Maybe a bit of both.

“Do you want to get some pie after this?” Sam asked out of need to break the background noise of washing machines and gossip. 

Dean didn’t respond. He was back in restraint mode. 

“Okay, fine. Whatever,” Sam replied, dejected. 

“They came in about ten minutes ago. They were covered in what looked like blood, stripped and just started washing their clothes,”

Dean looked over at the attendant near the door. She was on her cell phone, her eyes still locked in their direction. The muscles in Dean’s jaw tightened as he turned his gaze back over to his brother.

Sam moved to stop the washing machine, but Dean gripped his arm and pulled him towards the door. Boxers, boots and socks, the attendant just stared at their physique as they walked out of the laundromat.

“How many times am I going to have to apologize?” Sam asked as the Impala pulled into another shopping center.

In contrast to the laundromat, the parking lot was full. At the far end of it, what seemed like blocks from where they parked, the giant Wal-Mart sign acted like a beacon to all Americans seeking low prices and coupon matching. 

Dean still didn’t reply. The only money they had on them was from a job they’d done in Wisconsin earlier that previous week and they were running low. This wasn’t what he had hoped to spend it on. He got out of the car and as they walked across the parking lot, Sam just shook his head at the circumstances.

It was easy enough to avoid the stares this time. People were used to strange at Wal-mart and as they moved the the isles, picking out new clothes, Sam thought he’d try to lighten the mood.

“At least we’re not the weirdest dressed here,” he said in a low undertone, his eyes pointing in the direction of a man near them. 

The man in question was middle aged, balding on top with a pattern of light grey to dark grey in the area that still had hair. His giant beer belly gut protruded out of the white wife beater he wore under the white fur coat. His white pants were skin tight and his matching shoes looked like something out of the seventies. Loafers with a huge heel, more suitable for bell bottoms than the skinny white denim.

Dean couldn’t help but crack a smile, but the man noticed them staring. 

“Freaks,” the abominable snow man snapped. The smile faded from Dean’s lips as he looked at Sam again, just as angry as he had been.

“This is your fault.”


End file.
